Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Mosquitoes are annoying little things. They're tiny and they buzz all over the place. But the worst thing about them is their bite. They're tiny but their bites pack a lot of punch. And the bites don't just sting for a bit and then disappear, oh no. They itch. And then you scratch them. And then they itch some more. And the more you scratch them, the bigger those bites grow till finally there's a scar where you don't one.

Now jealousy is a lot like a mosquito bite. It's small and it stings the first time it comes. But then it doesn't just go away. It comes back. And this time it itches a little more. If you scratch it just grows bigger and bigger. And then there's a scar. It's a potent thing, this jealousy. Sneaky and quiet, it attacks when you least expect it. And then it tests you, to see if you'll scratch it. It waits to see if you'll act on it. The strong ones, well they can keep the itch at bay, stand against the will to scratch and act. But what about those weak ones, the powerless ones? They scratch at that virus and boom, it wins.

And you know the worst thing about this jealousy? It doesn't differentiate between the people you love and everyone else. It attacks just as stealthily and bites just as hard. And that's what makes it worse. When you look at someone you love, someone you respect, and all that time the jealousy is itching and clawing at you. When you look at that person who means so much to you and your vision is clouded by that potent green monster, oh boy, it shows you how strong you really are, how much you are really made of.

Shakespeare called it a green-eyed monster. I just call it an annoying mosquito bite.

Monday, October 11, 2010

A story

Stories have a character of their own. I don't mean the characters that make the story but the story itself. A story lives and breathes and grows and changes. With the person who tells it, writes it, listens to it. Every story changes every time it is told, read, heard.

Acquiring different shades, different meanings, different interpretations, a story has a life of its own. The moment it leaves the mind, it becomes a living being. A story feels, flows, melts, transforms, mutates and lives.

Every story is a piece of imagination. A character that starts from an idea. A small wisp of smoke like the one an extinguised candle leaves behind. That's what a story looks like. And then when that small wisp of smoke that blows away with the slightest movement of the air, dissipates into the atmosphere, escapes the confines of the mind, breathes and grows stronger, the character is born.

And that is a story.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

You hold on. To things that you think are important. And to things that you know aren't important. You hold on till your fingers start hurting, till you hand grows numb. You hold on so tightly thinking that if you loosen your hold even for a minute, it'll all slip away. Because things are so volatile and flimsy.

You hold on with all the strength you can muster. You hold on.

But after a point. Realisation hits. That maybe you are stronger if you can let go. That maybe the fact that you let go means something. That maybe it's not wrong to be weak sometimes. That sometimes letting go is the only way to move forward. That you don't have to carry that burden forever. That letting go might not be such a bad thing after all.

So what do you do then?

Accept the weakness or prove that you are strong?

Sunday, October 3, 2010


We humans are a weak, deplorable, defenceless species. Replete with faults, shortcomings. Full of doubts, fears, insecurities.

The anger, the greed, the jealousy, the envy, the fear - these are what set us apart from those so-called lesser species. These base emotions that we so often frown upon, these make us what we are.

Hidden under those layers of lies and pretence; buried under those masks; fortified behind those walls; we are all the same. Fragile and powerless. Haunted by nightmares. Fighting off those demons that stalk us in the dark. Every single one of us. Desperate for help and support. For love. But what comfort can one weak soul provide another? What comfort exists in empty promises, false flattery?

And so we live meaningless lives. Fight meaningless wars. Exist.

Because in the end nothing really matters. Nothing at all.